Wednesday, October 3, 2007

Oh! Splenda!

I had to go to an educational conference today.  The following is a list of excerpts I jotted down in my notebook to keep myself from going insane.  Anyone who has ever been to a conference that is mind numbingly boring ought to be able to identify with a few of the disjointed thoughts that popped into my disjointed head during the proceedings.

The following was penned after I heard a fellow teacher comment when she saw the diet coke cans supplied at the conference had the logo for the artificial sweetener, Splenda, splashed all over the side of the can.   A five minute conversation on how surprising that was to all the fat out of shape old teachers ensued that was so achingly moronic that....well just read my notes:

Begin disjointed thoughts list:

I need to stab this pen into my temple.  Oh!  Splenda!  Holy-o-fuck.  How long has this shit been available?  Since 2005?  You don't grocerey shop?  Go to convenience stores?  You've never seen this shit?  How can you not notice a new addition to a product line as ubiquitous as Coke?  Oohs and aaahs abounded throughout the whole conversation debating whether they would ever be able to make the switch to the new version of diet coke.  When I thought I was done listening to it...it moved into another lengthy conversation on the variety of bagels that exist.
********

I'm about to suffer death by inane insubstanial conversation.
******

Great.  Now we are looking at pictures of relatives.  So we get to see pictures of people we don't give a shit about being presented by people we don't give a shit about.  That makes it "don't give a shit about" squared I believe.
*****

There's got to be a cliff in here.  Please let there be a cliff in this room I can hurl myself from.
*****

That overhead computer projector has been on all day long.  Nothing has been shown on it.  Do they know the bulbs cost $300-500 each?
*****

I no longer want to stab myself in the temple.  Instead I want to get shanked in the abdomen and slowly bleed out as my bowels empty into my pants just so my last moments are more pleasurable than listening to these ladies.
*****

If I had lived my entire life as a shut-in and been home schooled by a retarded parrot, I still wouldn't find anything these people are discussing remotely interesting.
*****

Can you feel an aneurysm coming on?
*****

I wonder if I started jerking off if anyone would notice.
*****

Right now I would rather have a yeti give me a prostate exam with his foot while using beach sand for lube than sit here any longer.
*****

This drop ceiling gives me nothing to throw a noose around.
*****

WWCED?
What would Clint Eastwood Do?
*****

Why is she talking to me?  I'm going to have to work on my look of utter disdain.
*****

I'm waiting for someone to tell me to stop spitting n my cup.  I have a chew in.
"Would you please stop doing that!  It's disgusting!"

"I will stop chewing if you work on being a little less fat and disgusting.  It's really bothering me.  While you're at it, try to work on being less tedious, too.  I think that will work for you in the long run."
*****

I'd rather have Dr. Mengele pull my ball hairs out one at a time with fishing pliers than be here.  I'll even throw in all the follicles on my taint, just get me out.
*****

I'm going to fake a seizure.  No, they'll call an ambulance.  Shit.  What is plan B?
*****

These new state requirements are as ridiculous as a monkey fucking a jug.
*****

I would rather eat bleu cheese out of Rosie O'Donnell's ass than be here.  No, I wouldn't.
*****

If you beat my cerebral cortex with a stocking full of jacks, I couldn't be in more mental distress than I am right now.
*****

I've never wanted to swap places with Steve Irwin until this moment.
*****

If I killed the guy who hosts "Dirty Jobs" what are the odds I'd be hired to replace him?
*****

I would rather have worm infested gorillas pelting me with their feces while I was tied naked to a stake than be here.
*****

I'm walking up the down escalator
*****

I think I just got stupider overhearing that conversation.
*****

This is like trying to fuck with a JATO strapped to your back.
*****

How do you know you're alive?

I bleed to know I'm alive.  Every day my heart beats, by lungs pulse, my limbs move, my brain fires.  How come I don't know I'm alive until I bleed?  Some days the sun shines.  Sometimes I laugh.  Most times I don't.  Some days my bones ache.  Sometimes flexing my muscles feels good.  I have just existed every day of my life.

So how come I have to bleed to be alive?  Why does it take a bloodletting for me to ponder the hard questions?  Why do I have to stand on the apex of the fulcrum, teetering one way or the other before I realize that life and the way I feel is important to me?  

I could be what I want or I could just continue.  I can risk or exist.  What do I need?  What do I want?  Where do those two things intersect?  Do they intersect?

Bleeding doesn't have to leave a scar.  Too many choose to let the bleed limit them.  It weakens them to the point they are afraid to reach higher.  I choose not to do that.  When a bone breaks, the process of healing actually makes the bone stronger than before.  That's what the bleed will do for me.  My base will thicken and expand.  I will reach beyond, reach farther than I ever thought I could.  I refuse to be otherwise.  I don't want to exist.  I want to be alive and that is my choice.

I am bone.

Monday, October 1, 2007

Ever Get Your Ass Kicked by a Six Year Old?




I’ve got nothing too clever planned for this entry, but the important part is I get back to writing at this point so here goes:

Ever get your ass kicked by a six year old? Me neither, but at times like yesterday I was certainly glad that six year olds are physically weaker than adults. I hung my heavy and striking bags last night. The kid was there with me the whole way. After taking some time adjusting things and showing her how to tape her hands, she and I went ten three minute rounds. She hung with me the whole way and then embarrassed me by doing a minute’s worth of jumping jacks between rounds while I was bent over panting and sweating toxins out of my body.

This all evolved after being able to excavate all my ex-wife’s stuff from the basement. And by “stuff” I mean “absolute shitpile.” I now have room for this equipment that I always wanted. See I’m not negative all the time. I’m actually enjoying having a clean house. What’s even better, when I leave the house and it’s clean…when I come back to it…it’s still clean. Really cool stuff and a nice change for me.

I’ll continue to be positive. I need the practice at it. I’ll even thank myspace. Because of myspace, I know what the guy looks like that was bumping uglies with my wife which adds a considerable edge to my basement pummeling sessions. Since I left my heavy bag outside for the duration of my summer regimen, my waterlogged 75 lb bag weighs about 125 right now and it makes this really cool “smwhack” whenever I tag it well. I like to picture blood exploding from a certain nose whenever a cross registers and rattles the floor beam my bag is attached to. Immature? Yeah, but I get some slack due my circumstances don’t I? The bag sessions work better than my xanax anyways.

I’m not much a braggart and I know the old adage about “the bigger they are, the harder they fall” and all that, but I’ve been doing this stuff for years and I can set down on and throw a pretty decent punch if I say so myself. Aside from that, and this runs in the male side of my family…I kinda have what is known as retard strength when I get angry. So sometimes I go to sleep at night imagining what would happen if fuckface and I ever crossed paths. That will never happen. Not much good ever happens to me.

Okay, back to trying to be positive. Oh, regarding the single life. Y’know I’m not the anti-Christ my ex made me believe I was. Apparently there’s room for an educated nice guy that doesn’t look quite as ugly as a bag of hammers in the single world. I’ve even met a couple of women who actually treat me like I may be an enjoyable sort to hang around with. Seems, my ex was the only one treated me like an asshole. So it’s nice to be out from under that and begin building my self-esteem back up.

Anyways, back to the six year old. Check out these pics. I know in that one pic she missed with that straight right, but check out the intensity in her gaze and notice she’s not hitting with the palm side of the fist. She’s got those knuckles squared and ready to remove some offender’s teeth. That punch is a fat lip for some kid that pisses her off in the future. Do you want to face off with her? I thought not. My goal is to train her enough so she can kick the living shit out of any boy she dates. Hope you are ready for her boys. It will be a few years before I have to worry about that, but by then she’ll be prepared.



I WILL meet all of her dates before they go out. Whoa to the first teenager who picks up my daughter and sits in the car in the driveway and honks the horn. If I get enough advance warning of the date, my plan is to be outside with my shirt off splitting wood with my 16 lb moll. If he has the balls to get past the pre-date interview with me, then I guess I’ll let him have a shot taking my kid out.

I love my kid. She’s been through enough pain these past months due to no fault of her own and no fault of mine so I have to admit I’m feeling a little overprotective lately.

It was just a great time yesterday in the basement. The kid and I both hitting those bags at the same time was pure pleasure. I wonder if she was thinking about that fuckface from myspace, too? I know it takes two to tango and that my ex was equally at fault for the indiscretions, but I’ve never been a big fan of hitting women…even the ones who deserve it; so I’ll have to content myself with sickly macabre thoughts of pulling this guy’s limbs off one at a time and eating his still beating heart while it pumps blood down my chest. Ahhhhh, that thought makes me feel warm inside. Like Christmas morning.

Sunday, September 30, 2007

Here's the Deal

Everything posted below this was originally posted on myspace which I am now avoiding like the plague.  Y'see it seems, my wife met some guy on myspace and has been boning him for almost a year now.  You can still see her pic on my friends list at myspace in her sports bra with those tight little abs.  Yeah, I took that picture.  She maintains that little body partially by working as a professional trainer after passing the test that I helped her study for....twice.  So after fifteen years of being faithful and trying to help her through her six different kinds of crazy, it all went for naught as she decided she would bone the guy who raped her in high school.  Yes, you heard me right.  His name is John Scott and you can look him up on myspace, too.  My wife's picture will be on his "friends" list, too. The divorce isn't final, but it will be soon enough.  You two deserve each other.  Have fun.  

So, that's the reason for the new digs, the lack of posts and everything else.  Now I'm trying to get back into the writing swing.  The previous stuff I transferred over in its entirety from myspace except for a rather embarrassing poem I wrote while I was battling depression a few months back due to my marital situation.  I declined to repost that.  I notice some of the stuff is out of order and not formatted to make it easier to read, but I believe it all is still understandable.  

Don't worry about me.  I've got lots of friends and family supporting me.  My vision gets a little clearer every day and I'm able to see that I was suffering what was basically mental abuse at the hands of my wife for years and I'm now rolling forward.  I've lost about 40 lbs recently.  I believe they call it the infidelity diet.  My workouts have been frequent and I feel physically better than I have in years.    I'm off to hang a heavy bag in the basement and work off some bitterness at even having to dicuss my wife's antics, but in the end, I think writing about it and letting the world know what I've been going through could be therapeutic for me and hopefully mildy entertaining for others who may come here, just to have a laugh or two at my expense.  That's okay.   Later

Next Post

Next Post

Hoookay, well that weight of 265ish I mentioned in my last post. Better make that 270. Yay. Avoiding mirrors is getting to be one of my best talents. Despite that, once in a while when I get out of the shower I still slip up and glance to that reflective menace on my left and I am simply amazed at how much my upper body looks like a pile of mashed potatoes with nipples. Mmmm, mmm. That's good eatin'.

Sigh...small steps. With that in mind I'm trying to slowly get my shiftless carcass used to activity again. I'm so far out of shape at this point that I have to get into shape before I can start working out again. The last three weekends I've managed to get a lot of yard work and errand running done. Tonight I even managed to come home after work and do a little gardening...a pasttime I have never liked, but I thought it might get me outside a little bit and provide some activity.

Getting off my ass after dinner is a big deal for me. I've been battling a thyroid condition for a few years now and my routine for most of the last year has involved struggling to remain awake at the wheel long enough to get home feed myself and go to sleep.

"Thyroid condition" Damn I hate that term. I used to constantly belittle those fat housewives who always pushed the blame for their ballooning asses off on a "thyroid condition." I suppose it is poetic justice to a point for me to eventually find out that such a condition really does exist and really does suck big donkey dick. At least now I know I'm not crazy when I kept telling myself that I wasn't eating enough calories to support my body weight all this time. It's nice to be right once in a while.

So the immediate plan is to lose some of body fat through making a few dietary changes and hitting the heavy bag until I get back down to around 255 or so. By then I'll feel a little more like a human being enough to get back into the gym. Right now, all my clothes look like I'm wearing spandex because it's all so tight and uncomfortable. I do notice my mental faculties returning of late, too which is nice. Did you know that a severe thyroid disorder can affect your ability to think in complete sentences? At one point I thought I had finally had that one shot too many of whiskey and had finally fried the brain cells that were responsible for me being able to maintain enough of an attention span to wipe my own ass. I'm only partly joking about that. Nothing like having a handful of dirty toilet paper and having to exercise extreme concentration to remember what you are supposed to do with the paper next.

I'll start posting progress reports regarding my current attempts at getting my shit back together as necessary. I teach high school and in the back of my mind I keep waiting for summer vacation before I kick myself into high gear. I know that's a cop out in and of itself, but like I said, small steps. I work most of the summer, too, but my summer job is considerably less mentally fatiguing and I tend to get to the gym much more in the summer anyways.

Hopefully at some point I'll be able to focus on writing something more entertaining in this blog other than dwelling on this deteriorating slum I call a body.

First Blog Ever

First blog ever.

Okay, so I started this blog to try to get myself out of this huge funk I'm in and to have a little bit of fun. I've never taken part in a blog before so I figure I don't want to mess up someone else's so I may as well mess up my own.

Suffice it to say that I'm having a hard time getting to where I should be mentally, physically and every other wise. So maybe by making myself vent a little here and there I can somehow figure out what the hell it is I'm doing vs what it is I should be doing.

Right now I imagine my posts will range anywhere from weird dreams I've had to melancholy bottom of the whiskey bottle type melodrama, to posts designed to kick myself in the ass, to vicious rants about the many, many stupid and lazy people I deal with on a daily basis.

I guess let's start with the basics. After several medical problems in the last couple years I think it is safe to say that I'm almost in the worst shape of my life. I'm 5' 6" tall and weigh in the neighborhood of 265. Now that's a lotta drippy, hangy, disgustingness wrapped into one package, but it isn't quite as bad as it seems. I'm not ready for my own Discovery Channel episode yet where they have to knock out a wall and swing me out of my bed with a crane. Not yet anyways. I do have a decent base of muscle underneath all this and I reckon if I got down to 210 or so, I could probably see my abs again. I mean...I'm assuming they are still there somewhere and haven't moved out seeking better quarters yet.

I'm not going to get into the medical conditions or the runs of bad luck or any of that crap that no one wants to hear about just yet. They will probably come out as I go along with this blog anyways. I just don't want to start out with a bunch of whiny "poor me" bullshit. I know things could always be worse. I could lose my job and be re-hired as a suppository inserter for other fat people who can't quite make the reach around to their own anuses (ani?) for example.

Whew. Well, first entry out of the way and I'm out of time. The first entry is the toughest right? We'll find out over the next few weeks

A Shot in the Ass

A Shot in the Ass

Finally went to the doc after being pushed and prodded by a friend. I gave him a buzz to catch up with what was going on at work because I had missed three consecutive days which is not typical for me in the least. During that time I had coughed up enough clots of semi-solids from my lungs to feed a family of five for a month. I told him I had convinced a local doctor to squeeze me in, in five days. Said friend's reply was delicate, well thought out, and comforting. I believe it went something like, "Dude, you sound like shit. You better get in some place sooner than that! That thing...in your voice....nnnnnnnot goooooood." Up until that point I had thought that I just had a persistent bug...the kind that sticks around for 12-16 weeks. Y'know. Typical spring cold and flu stuff. After that phone call I began wondering what the beginning stages of leprosy were, so I got on the phone and found a doc willing to see me sooner. It meant having to take the next day off work, but I decided maybe I should listen to someone for once.

Things went well at the doc's office with the exception of that scion from Ol' Scratch himself. Most of you might know him by his lay name, the scale. 268 pounds of fighting shape I'm apparently in. That is if you consider the shape of a weeble wobble a fighting shape. I never let the nurse touch the slides on the scale anymore. They usually put the large weight on the 200, then work it up to the next notch...eye me curiously like I might be smuggling lead bird shot in my rectum and then notch it up again and again. I just save them the trouble now.

The doctor had good news for me and assured me that leprosy hadn't been seen in our neck of the woods in quite a while. I'm going to share the name of my doctor with you. I won't share a lot of real names here, but this one is too good to pass up. She is of East Indian descent and her name, I'm not kidding, is Dr. Farah Khan. Do you think her folks did that on purpose? Anyways, after several rattling breaths and coughs from me and several concerned looks from my stethoscope laden anti-semite (just Wikkipedia Farrakhan if you have to...don't be ashamed), I was whisked to X-ray, the blood lab, and back to the doc's office.

She asked if I had been sick for a while. I asked her if three-four months was considered a "while." She favored me with a withering humorless look that I thought only wives could give their husbands and told me aside from my ear infection, sinus infection, and pneumonia, I was fine. (How come she gets to make with the dry humor and I just get cold looks when I try it? It's my insurance paying for my time there. Least she could do is pretend to find me amusing. Damned, anti-semites.) Then I got a laundry list of antibiotics. I get this really cool inhalant antibiotic. I'm trying to think of some cool way to use it to my advantage. Like passing out in the supermarket and having my five year old daughter pretend to freak out while digging my inhaler out of my pocket. She would proabably start laughing and wreck the whole thing though. She's like that. I also get some pills and BONUS, I get not one but two shots....in my ass.

Now, I'm not afraid of needles, but I haven't had to pull my skivvies down in a doctor's office and bend over since I was about five and had to get shots. I took it like a man. I figured, I'm four years from my first prostate exam so I may as well get used to it. I'm still hoping that before then they'll come up with some home kit for prostate exams involving a dental mirror and a back scratcher. Either that or they'll start making prostate exams more home friendly. Y'know how you can't open a workout mag or even sift through your wife's Cosmo without there being some article in there about how either the woman can do her own breast exam or have her "partner" do her breast exam for her? I'm hoping before I get to the big 4-OH, that prostate exams will be more acceptable to perform at home. "Honey, if you loved me you would check this for me. What? No, the leather chaps and the ball gag aren't necessary for the exam, but they do add a little something don't they?"

The shots weren't bad. I was worried for a second about just how far to drop trou. If you don't pull your pants down far enough, then it's makes you feel even more vulnerable when the nurse has to sigh and tell you, "A little more. No, more than that. Please sir, I have other patients and I'm not enjoying this view." On the other hand wouldn't it be embarassing if you pulled your pants down too far and then the nurse was wondering if you were trying to expose her to a rear scrotum view on purpose? I've seen a front view of my scrotum and I'm willing to bet the rear view is less appetizing. Apparently I guessed right as I didn't hear her snickering either then or while I was outside at the payment desk. The important thing is, I'm back on the healing track. I went to work today. I'm still in need of catching up on sleep, but I'm feeling a little better every day. I can't wait to see what goes wrong next.

That Bitch Janice

That bitch, Janice.


Wow, I can't believe it's been almost three weeks since my last posting. During that time, I've gone through the final two weeks of school and the end of the year paperwork blitz, done a bunch of preparations for bargaining meetings because we are up for contract renewal, and mowed my lawn it feels like about every other damn day, gone to a send off party for my neice whom I believe is going to a hair school, completely avoided the awkwardness of going to any of my students' graduations parties, gone on the end of the school year bender, and finally felt healthy enough for two workouts in a row.

None of any of that is striking any chords with me at the moment, but I had this dream last night with such a combination of images that I can't get it off my mind. So I'm going to write about it.

The dream starts out where I'm walking through my elementary school yard with Janice. Now I do and have known several Janices of various spellings in my life. I currently work with one who helps our teacher's union negotiate. I believe Janice was the name of the first girl I ever held hands with. I currently have a dear friend of the same name although it has been so long since I've seen her, I am starting to wonder if she were ever real or simply an imaginary friend I should have outgrown by now. I'm sure I've had at least one student named Janice in some year or other.

The Janice in my dream was different however. The Janice in my dream was the sister of Tony Soprano. The ultimate self-serving, self-deluding, leetch bitch of all time. Her character is so annoying, cloying, and dastardly brilliant in her own way, that I recently had to turn off the episode of The Sopranos I was viewing because I was having violent thoughts towards my television. I don't know if she reminds me of the negative aspects of women I have encountered over the years or what, but I react to seeing her face on-screen the same way overly sensitve dogs react to a dog whistle. Either whining and hunched down on the carpet or nervously pacing around with a look of what-the-fuck?

Enough back story. Back to the dream. I'm slowly walking on a sunny afternoon across my elementary school yard. I'm a grown man. Sopranos Janice is 1/2 step behind me and close enough our arms brush as they swing. Once in a while I can feel her grabbing for my arm or hand and I ignore her. I vaguely have this feeling of regret. Like I did something bad. Although I can't remember a single word Janice said, I know she is trying to convince me to stay with her. I don't want to. There is some sense of guilt in that. The guilt either stems from the fact that I cheated on someone with her or because I deeply regretted rutting with something as hideous as Janice. I can't tell which, but either way I feel like I am a less respectable man for whatever unknowns I did before the opening sequence of my dream.

I wish Janice would stop clinging to me. I wish she would leave me alone because I feel like I have to or want to go. There are other people around, but their faces are all blurred out like the censored private parts on Asian porn sites. Then the scene switches abruptly. (I kinda think something happened that I no longer remember between these scenes, but I was running too late to write this down this morning when it was so much more clear.) I am now in the foyer of the school standing behind my motorcycle. Janice is still behind me reaching for me. The freedom of the open road surges forward in me in an almost uncontrollable way. Y'know how when you really have to pee and you finally walk into a restroom and it's almost like your bladder knows you are close to release and you really have to fight back that urge to start pissing before you even get your pants undone? Yeah, I know. I'll submit that to the board of bad metaphors myself later, but that's pretty much what it was like.

The promise of freedom almost makes my hands sweat and suddenly I'm tense because I'm so close to being gone that I'm not operating efficiently. Suddenly I see the motorcycle kickstand start to slide out from under it on the smooth stone foyer floor. I reach the bike in time and grab the back end and right it several times, but every time I tip it to allow the kickstand to get under it, the kickstand just slides out again when I lean the bike onto it. Finally, with much fucking around and with Janice's voice still burrowing into my skull behind me, I lean the bike against myself and manage to shuffle close enough to my kickstand to see that there is a nut loose and that is why the kickstand isn't holding. The odd part is, it was more like a bicycle kickstand and not a motorcycle kickstand.

From there I think I put the kickstand up and found something to lean the bike on. All I really know is the sense of the bike leaning on me is now gone at this point. I move farther forward on the bike and notice large hunks of chrome flaked off the forks. The forks also are not realistic to my real bike. Not only have large chunks of chrome fallen off, but the exposed metal beneath is all rusted like a large amount of time had passed since it had started peeling. It is nothing catastrophic to the mechanisms of the bike. I can still run it, but I also realize my nature won't let me run the bike like that for long. I will take the forks off, package them, send them to a chromer, and pay large amounts of money for that service even though I know I don't have the money to pay. Mostly I feel a sense of...here is something that needs fixing, but I don't have a prayer in the world of coming up with the cash to do it. I'm even more dreading the time I have to put into pulling the forks off the bike and sending them out.

That's about it for the dream. Some of the stronger images I'm still aware of in the dream were of the sun as I crossed the playground and again the sun coming through the foyer windows and falling on my bike. The image of that out of place kickstand stays with me as well as that rusty hunk of metal staring at me from under the missing chrome. Strangely, Sopranos Janice's face never appeared in the dream. She was always behind me. I just knew it was her. There has to be something with time going on here. I'm an adult in the dream, but the setting is a place I last set foot on when I was about 11 or 12. The chrome flaked off recently, but the rust underneath required a passage of at least several seasons. Some sort of mid-life crisis kinda dream or what? Is Janice not a woman at all, but all my guilt personified? My bike, even though it is freedom to me, is it also a burden? So is this one of those, "Material things weigh you down." dreams?

Fucked if I know. I'm still left with a sense of wanting to get the hell away. Away from that playground. Away from Janice. Away from the bike's problems even. Maybe I'll have the dream again tonight and I'll have another whack at figuring this one out.

The Idiots That Are

The Idiots That Are.


I like to think of myself as a relatively easy going guy. I think most of my students would agree. Well in two short weeks of riding with driver education students I've had run ins with two people that really found the button to push on me and I hope they die with festering boils.



The first one was a flag person at a construction zone. The students and I had commented over the course of the week how seriously she took her job. By "job" I mean "herself." She should have become a cop because bullying and self-righteousness was obviously in her blood. Sorry to take a stab at cops there. I have a couple friends who are are great guys and I'm sure they are good cops, but even they would admit that the police force has more than it's share of dickheads and bullies.



Without a chalkboard it's hard to explain what went down in the driver ed van leading up to my moment with the glorified crossing guard, but suffice it to say, she messed up and ended up waving ahead a couple of logging trucks down the lane we were in. The only lane available. Still not a problem except that they were going the opposite way we were. If you want to see a true test of a driver education student's mettle, I think putting them into a possible head-on collision with a fully loaded logging truck might just do the trick.



Avoiding all harm and making every right choice possible, as I cutomarily do, we slipped into a parking lot at the last minute. After the road was safe for right of way traffic, I had the student go back to the highway where we were stopped by McGruff the Crime Dick and her vaunted stop sign. This chick was swell. Really swell. As in swollen. Really swollen. I didn't think an object as round as her could, but she did indeed swagger over to our driver education van. Her first words were, "Do you know why I'm stopping you?"


Ummmm, you thought our van was made of Haagen Daz?


Nope, yer teachin' them wrong.


These weren't the words I wanted to hear after Bluto had just incorrectly directed traffic at a van full of children. I tried the politeness route once. I tried the politeness route twice. Apparently she thought we had tried to cut the corner to avoid the construction zone. Despite the fact that I pointed out she was incorrect and I had three kids in the van to back up my story she insisted I was wrong and that I was terribly lucky she didn't report me. The conversation escalated from there. Ending with a concise and well elocuted, "Kiss my ass!" from me before we drove away. Within 1/2 mile I thought of about a dozen zippier things I could have said to her before we left her talking to herself.



The second incidence occurred when I directed a student into a turning lane in preparation for a left turn. At some point while signaling and pulling into the turning lane the correct way (Good job, Samantha) a red, open top Jeep came screaming the opposite way straight at us. Now the Jeep did signal, but that's about the only thing it did right. It blew into the turning lane at about 15 mph over the speed limit about a ¼ of a mile before it got to us. Just for the record, it didn't have to actually turn left for about another 1/4 of a mile after it eventually passed us. So now, for the second time we are in a lane facing oncoming traffic and let me tell you, this was one upset female driver!!!! Arms flailing, greasy, white wife beater bulging in and out with the pulsations of a midsection that was just a little too big to be referred to as Rubenesque, and a mouth that could have deep throated a fire hydrant sat there heaping curses on us from the Jeep.



If I had been alone I would have just laughed and sat calmly in the turning lane for the barslut to get the fuck out of my way. But, I did have kids in the car who were getting a little freaked out so we signaled, pulled back into traffic, went around the evildoer (That word does feel good. I think I know why George W. uses it all the time.) Said evildoer stared my kids and myself down the entire time we were creeping past. Again, if alone that would have made me laugh harder, but when students are with me, I get protective and again my mouth got the better of me as I informed her through the open window what a fat ugly whorebag she was. I probably shouldn't have done that. If the boyfriend who was in the passenger seat of that Jeep reads this in the near future, I want you to know that I saw you there looking rather sheepish as I'm sure you realized that your girlfriend was in the wrong....oh, and one other thing, RUN! RUN AWAY FAST! I don't care how well she sucks your dick or if she does that thing you like involving baby oil and pork rinds! Get the hell away while you still can.



So what did these incidents have in common that irked me to the point of using inappropriate language around my students? The first thing I can think of is that both of those situations put my kids in danger. The second thing and I think the one that really, really set me off was both of them fucked up and didn't realize they fucked up. In fact, they didn't realize they fucked up so bad that they thought we had fucked up and insisted despite all evidence to the contrary that we were wrong. This is an elite level of ignorance. If you are an intelligent person, don't even try to achieve this level of ignorance. I saw someone try it once and he is now a vegetable. I'll probably never see my little Tweedledee flag person again once her job is finished (Unless I go to the moon. She might still be visible from there.) and I doubt I'll see my blonde haired Jeepslut again, but every time I read or someone speaks the word "ignoramous" I want you to know that I'll think of you two first.

Bout Damn Time

Bout Damn Time

Wow, time sure flies when you're busier than hell. Glad to say that not all of it has been busy with occupational work and etc. I've knocked about 30 jobs off the "Get done before the end of summer" list in my first week off after driver ed shut down. I also I took in Ozzfest at Alpine Valley this past weekend. The setup at Alpine Valley kinda makes me think about what it would be like to have an ice cream man design bridges or something.

The first fuckamarole was a guard rail set up around the second stage to keep it from getting too crowded close to the band. You had to get there at about 7-8 a.m. to get a special wristband to let you into this privileged area. Not the worst idea in the world except that it was one of the best kept secrets of the show. Keep in mind that this is an all day metal festival that goes on for about 13+ hours and not that many people want to be there for the whole thing. I like metal, but 13+ hours is too much for me in one day. If you weren't allowed inside the guard rail you had to stay back far enough from the band to really damage the concert experience. It didn't help that while I was right near the guard rail, I got to watch the privileged few do calisthenics and play tag like kids because they had so much elbow room in there. I managed to get one row away from the rail and I still ended up watching over half the concert on the big screen. Great. My brother-in-law has a 65 inch flat screen t.v. that I could have enjoyed just as much for a lot less money. Since the special orange arm band thing wasn't publicized, anyone more than four rows outside of Graceland had no idea why they were so far back from the stage and kept surging forward trying to get closer, not knowing there was a guard rail fifteen feet in front of them. Again, great stuff.

The main stage consisted of about oh....four hundred acres of seats before the lawn seating began which meant you could stand right behind the seats and still not be able to recognize individual band members. Of course, if I had just wanted to take out that second mortgage on the house, I could have bought tickets in the seat acreage, but I decided against that course of action. Also, for some reason, they decided not to run the second stage and main stage bands together this time. So instead of people heading back and forth to catch the bands they wanted and socializing when it was time to take a break from the mosh pits and crowd surfing, people just gave up trying to see the stage and lagged way in the back of the crowd. The social atmosphere of this thing was severely retarded as a result of this major feat of planning. Not to mention it also made it harder and harder to see the bands you wanted to see because the crowd wasn't split up between two ends of the fairgrounds.

Those major bitches out of the way, Alpine Valley had two things going for it. A)I never had to wait in line for beer and B)I never had to wait in a line longer than three people for a piss. Other than that, I can only hope that Ozzfest returns to Somerset, WI again in the future because my experience at Somerset will last me a lifetime. My experience at Alpine Valley was okay, but I surely don't see myself ever spending that much time and energy to see a music festival there again. I think next summer I'll have to check out the Fox Valley and the SummerFest they hold there annually.

Ted Koppel and Jesus

Ted Koppel and Jesus

Okay, I didn't hang on every word of last night's Discovery Channel episodes of The Lost Tomb of Jesus and the follow up, A Critical Look, but it sure seemed to me that the panel that was supposed to be offering an educated critical look at the film seemed more like folks desperately seeking any way to criticize than to actually debunk what was said during the course of the film.



Instead Koppel couldn't get past the use of the dramatizations Jacobovici, the director, used to illustrate the questions raised by the archaeological findings. Koppel hammered Jacobovici over and again for using what is a very common technique in docudramas.

Apparently Koppel thought that Jacobovici was using those little excerpts of Jesus and Mary preaching or hanging laundry to unfairly influence the audience to believe the facts and theories he was presenting during his film. I don't think Koppel could have been more distressed by those dramatizations if they had depicted Jesus sodomizing puppies in the backroom of a Country Kitchen. Of course, the irony of immediately showing Noah's Ark: The True Story immediately after the Koppel criticisms was not lost on me. It is okay for the church to use dramatizations in order to convince folks of whatever they want, but woe be to the journalist who uses dramatizations to support his findings. It was okay for the Noah's ark crew to use dramatizations because they were using them to validate a Biblical story instead of question a Biblical story. In fairness, maybe Koppel would be as equally repelled by the Noah's ark film as he was by The Lost Tomb. Somehow I doubt it.



The other thing Jacobivici was railed on for was the fact that not enough scientific testing was done for his data to be irrefutable. He was chastised for this over and over again despite Jacobovici saying right off the top that he wants more scientific testing to be done and that he wants there to be more open dialogue on the subject. Jacobovici also went out of his way to say that his findings are NOT irrefutable proof that Jesus' body remained on earth and that he popped out a kid with the help of the lovely Mary Magdalene. He iterated that there was enough evidence to warrant continued investigation. That's what he said, but apparently what the opposing panel heard was, "I'm going to tear down your church, shit in the confessional, and eat your children." because they obviously weren't interested in what Jacobovici actually said, they only wanted to pick and tear at him and his work.



Several times, what Jacobovici actually said was ignored so his opponents could continue to rip on him. I don't have a transcript and I only watched the episode once. (I'm poor. Tivo and I are not yet friends.) I seem to remember one of Jacobovici's detractors, let's call him Mr. Stickuphisass, saying something like, I happen to know Dr. Whosisfuksis, and he says that you misrepresented what he said. Jacobovici replied (not an exact quote) "It's an unedited section of tape. Dr. Whosisfucksis said it. It's on tape." Apparently those words meant nothing to the opposing panel which just kept repeating the same inane comment over and over again.



I really could give a crap if Jesus' body went to heaven or if it was sent to a glue factory in east Herzegovina, but if the debates on the topic of Jesus' Tomb are to be continued, I hope the panel of scientists and theologians the church utilizes come off a little better than they did in last night's debate. Even with Koppel's biased mediating, I thought they came off looking petulant instead of presenting viable opposing views that were worthy of further discussion.



 

Bikers and Easter Carnivals

Bikers and Easter Carnivals

After a disappointing lack of outrage over my last couple of boob blog entries I figured I'd go other after other prey.



I took my daughter to the local Young Men's Christian Association Easter Carnival Fundraiser this past weekend. Let me tell you, I find most bikers in the bars I frequent during my riding months to be ten times more polite and enjoyable to be around than the flotsam that comes out to frequent these things. Most of the kids that attended the carnival were great. It's the parents of the kids I can't stand for the most part. I've prepared a little comparison list to illustrate my obvious bias. For the ease of posting, I'll use the abbreviation YSF in place of Yuppie Scum Fucktard.



Situation: One of them cuts in front of you.



What they are thinking:
YSF: My kids, my life, my situation is so infinitely more important than your kid, life, and situation that if I can get away with cutting in front of you so that my two boys can enjoy the infinite pleasures of a homemade plywood Plinko board one minute earlier, then I'll do it and I won't even know that what I did was wrong.



Biker: I really didn't see you there. I don't really care that I cut in the beer line in front of you, but if I had seen you there, I'd be just as likely to buy you a beer and shoot the shit for a minute or two in order to be sociable. I didn't cut because I think I'm better than you. I just really like beer.



You'll notice that the biker isn't perfect either, but he has no illusions that his presence on this earth is any more or less important than yours.



Situation: Someone randomly asks, "Do you know where your kid is?"



YSF: I'm not sure. I haven't seen him since I loaded him up with Pez and Mountain Dew. I'm not worried, since he is 78 pounds overweight at the ripe old age of 9 because I let him sit in front of his XBox all day long. I'm sure he won't be that hard to find. Just follow the scent of impending diabetic death and it will lead to him. Please don't talk to me again unless it is really important. I'm busy updating my fantasy Lacrosse league on my blackberry.



Biker: He should be about halfway back from that keg with my beer or he's gonna get a steeltoe up his ass.



Notice again, although not perfect, the biker assigns his kid some responsibility in an effort to mold his offspring into a functional member of society. The task did involve physical activity and consequences to aid in motivation.



Situation: Child is obnoxiously misbehaving.



YSF: For male children, this usually starts and ends with the parent constantly repeating whatever vaguely gay sounding name they gave to their kid while still trying to uphold a conversation. For example: "Calgary, stop that. Calgary. Calgary. Calgary. I don't know why he does this. Calgary. Calgary. He must get it from his mother *giggle*. Calgary, you know Daddy told you that was something you should do in private. Calgary. Calgary. Calgary. Calgary..."




Biker: "What the hell do you think you are doing? Jeeez-esss. Go wash your hands. Bring me back a beer when you are done. Oh, you're not going to do that again are you *arches eyebrow*. "



Notice how efficiently the problem was solved. A real parent doesn't need to raise his voice to get his point across. Especially if enough discipline has been previously administered in the privacy of the home. No repeated threats. No bargaining. It's just done. Again the child is given another beer errand to give him something constructive to do. Idle hands and all that.



Situation: Individual is accosted about why they didn't attend some friend or another's barbecue/birthday party/christening/ass waxing.



YSF: Well, that was the same weekend that I was having my teeth whitened (lie) and having the Escalade waxed and then Richard wasn't feeling well (lie) and little Calgary was being grounded (lie) so it really wasn't good timing. Well I have to get off the phone. Aunt Liza is in rehab again and my call waiting is ringing.(lie finitum)



Biker: Nah, I didn't really feel like going because I was up all night drinking the night before so I just said fucket.



Again, the brevity and honesty of the biker can only be admired. After all, haven't we all done or wanted to do that at some point? I'm not really insulted if someone doesn't come to one of my gatherings. I truly have a "more beer for me" attitude about that sort of thing. It might be a little embarassing if I was throwing the party in their honor and they didn't show, but that hasn't happened to me yet so I won't worry about it.



According to my scorecard, the bikers shut out the fucktards four to oh. So, the next time you are traveling through some town and in need of a beer and burger rest stop, try a biker joint. You'll be glad you did. They'll be glad you did, too because they'll probably spend most of their time laughing at you and pissing on the tires of your Civic. Relax, that means they like you. If they didn't like you, they would piss on the door handles.

RE: Gazongas

March 12, 2007 - Monday
RE: Gazongas

It seems that a comment was made on my original Gazongas post. I began a reply, but it got too long so I decided to make it another entry unto itself.

Original comment to Gazongas post by kim:
regardless of The Pickle, i bet there are women out there who are smart AND have boobs. and i bet there are women who got boobs b/c THEY wanted them.

our lives don't revolve around men after all.

imagine.

i definately still want a boob job.

My reply to kim:

I should have known you would pipe in on this. I would have been disappointed if you hadn't. What I'm referring to in the rant...notice the name "rant" which gives me some entitlement to use generalizations to make a point otherwise I would have labeled it as a debate topic or legal brief or some such tommyrot...anyways the rant refers to the trend today to seek superficial fixes to what ails us.

Depressed? Go buy some new clothes. Feeling empty? Run down to the local Quik Lube implant place and get an oil change and some new jugs.

Feeling inadequate? How about some new hair or some calf implants or pec implants?

How about we seek inside ourselves for the reasons we don't feel complete, happy, satisfied, proud of ourselves?

If someone never wakes up happy with herself, I don't think a new set of tits is going to help anymore than if she runs out and blows $500 on a shopping spree. It won't help any more than when a fat, middle aged balding man goes out and buys a convertible.

People need to seek inside themselves. Examine lifestyle. Examine honesty. Examine conduct. Examine work ethic. Examine social interaction. Maybe with some powers of self-reflection one can find what is really the source of the problem instead of grabbing for an artificial band-aid approach that only makes someone feel better for a short time.

As for wanting to get a boob job because of a man, the motivation is really beside the point. It's still a topical oinment being applied in order to fix an internal injury.

I would rather see women become more strong and sure of themselves than to continue to feed into the body image delusions being propagated by every magazine and plastic surgery hut in the U.S.

I really hate how every magazine and cosmetic surgery place has put so much money the last decade or two into making people feel like fixing your outside will make you feel better. Take the quick fix. It works! There's nothing wrong with the easy way out! C'mon, everybody's doing it.

It kind of reminds me of the ad campaigns for cigarettes and fast food. There's nothing wrong with our product. Just try it. The quick fix trend is just as dangerous. There is even evidence to show that plastic surgery is addictive just like fast food and nicotine, too.

Gazongas

March 11, 2007 - Sunday
Gazongas

The other day my wife sent me a pair of pictures of Kellie Pickler. One photo was before the boob job and the other was after. The resulting rant it led me on has nothing to do with Kellie Pickler herself and is just generally misogynistic. I thought I'd cut and paste it here. In case you are too stressed out to spend fifteen seconds using Google images, I've pasted a couple URL's below.

Before pic:
http://www.brianmay.com/queen/queennews/newspix/06/kellie_pickler_190.jpg

After pic:
http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_FdBLgnTuBbc/RexB1arDvII/AAAAAAAAABU/SnsmdbT05Ag/s1600-h/kellie-pickler-boobs-5.jpg

******

The "before" picture looks better. Implants....bah, who likes em? Baggage so that superficial women can do a better job of attracting superficial men. Add the makeup, wear whore clothes, dance like a slut, get implants, add a nosejob and then bitch because all the men they attract are shallow.

Anybody else's ears ringing with the deafening gong of irony?

I've got an idea. Instead of working extra Friday shifts waitressing at Chili's so you can afford $10K worth of silicone, you could actually take a class or travel and do something to improve yourself. Maybe with a little practice you could even become smart enough to uphold one end of an intelligent conversation that involved more than trendy makeup and how much of a shame it is that The Gap no longer carries your favorite brand of shoes. That way instead of just giggling and tittering while you sit in men's laps at the bar waiting for them to buy you the next round you could actually show the world that you do have a brain and some sort of depth of character. Maybe if you could achieve that, then maybe, just maybe you would eventually be able to find a man that is interested in more than your gazongas.
Okay, now I think I'm done with that rant. No promises though.

Don't tell me men are responsible for holding back women in this world. Women do a good enough job of that themselves.

The Ultimate Taintlicker

May 12, 2006 - Friday
The Ultimate Taintlicker.

Anyone here watch "The Ultimate Fighter?" Well it's a reality show tournament, full contact fighting style, where the big winner in each division gets a fat contract. The fighters are sequestered in a house sans any communication with the outside world for a couple months as they train for the big pay day. I think in order to win the whole shooting match a guy has to win three fights. No I don't know for sure if it is only three fights. It might be four. I watch TV for enjoyment and not to zealously follow every detail like our elvish speaking Hobbiton-ophiles who are at this moment probably somewhere sipping their mead and discussing how shot #14 in scene 27 of the sixth installment of the Star Wars series contained a little known microscopic alien that you have to freeze frame, digitize and then enlarge the aspect ratio in order to see. I'm sure, despite my lack of attention to detail, I'll figure out when the championship fight is taking place. I digress.

This past episode one of the fighters, Noah, or as he shall henceforth be known, Taintlicker, decided to go home because apparently his girlfriend wrote him a bitchy note about how she heard he cheated on her while he was at the "fighter house." Taintlicker reacted like any 16 year old boy who had only experienced pussy once in his life would. He ran home to his girlfriend to set things right. The only problem is, Taintlicker is 24 years old and he has only been dating this chick for six months.

Point the first: If she is so insecure that she is going to send you this info based entirely on rumor, during this most important time of your entire life when a distraction can cause you to either A) lose or B) have your head kicked entirely off your neck or C) both, then her immaturity is only surpassed by your own.

Point the second: If you did cheat on her, then it isn't going to work anyways. If you didn't cheat on her, and she is still pissed a month later when you finally make it home then, it just isn't going to work out anyways. Just let that ship leave the dock and feel sorry for the next easily manipulated manchild she sinks her little teeth into.

Point the third: There's a reason they call this type of opportunity "once in a lifetime." Taintlicker, can you guess how often those types of opportunity will come your way? When you look back on this decision five years from now when she is banging some more successful fighter, I only ask that you don't cry into the microphone when you ask me if I want fries with that.

It surely doesn't help you, Taintlicker, that you apparently are a very talented fighter and had already won your first fight. You beat a good fighter in that fight while showing good skills on your feet and great skills on the ground. So I'm guessing that your chances of winning the whole thing were at least average to better than average. And you gave it up? You gave it up to go home, talk to your little ballclipper, and then get put into the loser house where they will sequester you until the end of the fights and the show finishes airing anyways. What did you gain?

I would have liked to have been a fly on the wall of your skull while you were weighing the options on this decision. Hmmm, on the one hand I can win a bunch of money, get more face time on a major television series, train with some of the best fighters in the world, and I might return to my home town a hero. --OR-- On the other hand, I can run home sniveling to my girlfriend, train locally with some probably OK fighters, put my career in jeopardy of never getting off the ground, and I'll surely get shit for the rest of my life as the pussywhipped fuckface who ran home to kiss his girlfriend's ass.

Wise choice you made Taint ol' boy. Wise choice.

VT and NB

VT and NB

Here's an email I sent to some buddies. I typed it in about 90 seconds. Here it is, in its unedited original form:

Subject: Did youse know...

that apparently that Cho guy at Virginia Tech didn't kill all those
people? Apparently the fault lies with the University that didn't see
it coming and devise a way to instantaneously inform all of its
students on and off campus that some nutball with a gun was wandering
campus.


Also the free availability of guns in our society is to blame.


Also the fact that no one stopped him before he did it so I'm sure
there is some psychiatrist to blame somewhere too.

The city police took two hours to barricade the campus to keep people
from entering so they share some blame.


The companies that manufactured the guns need to be shut down.


The people that sold the guns need to go to jail, too.


So apparently everyone is to blame except the nutball who actually
shot people because we are an uncaring society who drove him to it and
alowed him access to the tools to accomplish his nutball mission.


Did you know Anna Nicole Smith died?

Goddamn I hate the fucking news.
+++++++end email++++++++

The treatment of this devastating incident by the U.S. media makes me want to vomit.


Between that and the Canadian story of how a mistranslation by Chinese software labeling an Italian couch "nigger brown" has a family suing because they are all "deeply affected"....well I may never watch the news again. All I can say is, "All your base are belong to us." Those of you who know what I am
talking about are probably laughing your asses off right now. For those of you
who don't know, if I explained it, it wouldn't be funny anymore. You are not a very stable family if your sofa bears an offensive word on the tag and it throws your entire family for a loop. I'm pretty sure the Chinese and Italians like to sell their products just like Canucks and Americans do. What would they ever have to gain by purposefully putting a racial slur on a tag? Moore family, do me a favor; next time the world slows down for a second...jump the fuck off! Hey, I can't be any more crass than Don Cherry can I?